


Letting You Go

by aesthetic_emotions



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, M/M, Platonic Romance, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthetic_emotions/pseuds/aesthetic_emotions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mary Morstan asks John Watson to move in with her, both John and Sherlock have to define the bounds of their relationship for once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ATTENTION: I am currently in the process of rewriting this, and am leaving this work up mostly for reference for those who have already read it. 
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> Work-in-progress. Whether this is friendship or pre-slash depends on how you interpret it. I believe it's somewhere in between and something of both.
> 
> A huge thanks to all of the following people, without whom this story would have never happened:
> 
> [thecutteralicia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thecutteralicia/pseuds/thecutteralicia) for her detailed edits and constant encouragements  
> my friend "M" for catching everything  
> [moonlitivy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlitIvy/pseuds/MoonlitIvy) for the BritPick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional thanks to [shirleyholmes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes) for the extra beta read.  
> 

_Do you need me now?_

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the screen, as if by doing so he could reveal the face behind the text, shining with naked eagerness for The Work, for its implied action and excitement, for the chance to fight a bit for the angels, for…

Part of him was tempted to say yes, even though there was absolutely nothing to be done at the moment. The case would require travel, and Lestrade had not deemed it urgent enough to leave before a full night’s sleep. (Sherlock would never understand other people’s need for excessive sleep, but had been inclined to agree about the schedule.) There had been a skimpy file sent to him, but in less than five minutes he had already fully memorized the contents within plus any additional relevant information culled with his own research. The accompanying photographs had been equally useless, too general and vague to glean anything from them.

No, any actual work would have to wait until tomorrow, when he could finally see the scene in person. And yet…

He glanced over at the sitting room table, at the paper on new fingerprint identification techniques he had been engrossed in prior to Lestrade’s call. It held no appeal whatsoever now.    

If John were here, Sherlock could at least tell him about the case, and John would scrunch up his brow and make his Johnish comments, at least several of which Sherlock would deem unexpectedly useful enough to store away. Or at the very least, they would make him laugh. John would love this case too; it contained that element of societal gossip which he knew that John, despite all his pretensions otherwise, secretly quite relished.

Sherlock stared at the cursor blinking in the reply box. All he would have to do is type yes…

No. He knew how it worked between them: she, Mary, would never complain when Sherlock called John away for a case, no matter how inconvenient the timing, as long as he did not interrupt her time with John except when truly necessary. This was nowhere even close to necessary.

With a bit of reluctance, he placed the phone down on the table and walked away to the window. It had just been an exercise in exploring possibilities; that was all.

Staring at the deadly quiet street below, he noted bitterly - and not for the first time - that the arrangement between them was not entirely equal. Unless he and John were on a case or the occasional other prearranged outing, Mary could call John away from him for any (or often no discernible) reason at all, whereas he could only call John away from Mary for something important.

It had been nearly a month (twenty-seven days, to be exact) since the last time he had called John away. Not that there hadn’t been work since then, but they had been almost all purely mental cases, entirely solved from just his armchair. Certainly nothing that had warranted John’s involvement in the least.  And now that there was finally something, he still had to wait! It was hardly fair…

_Is it not?_

He gritted his teeth. It wasn’t exactly that simple, was it.

The truth of the matter was (he forced himself to observe, not for the first time either) that despite the discrepancy, John always made sure to spend just as much, if not more, time with him as he did with Mary. He always ensured that they went out for a meal and then back home for some telly after each case before going off to hers, no matter how many days it had been since he last saw her. He also never spent more than two consecutive nights at hers, whereas he regularly spent two or even three nights in a row at Baker Street. ( _Although, he does live here_ , Sherlock reminded himself.) And on those rare occasions when John and Mary found enough time to take a trip away, he always made sure to spend a few days in a row with just Sherlock afterwards.

No, John always made sure that the actual situation was fair, perhaps even in Sherlock’s favour. If he had been spending more time with Mary lately, it was only because the two of them had spent the majority of last month together solving two major cases. Sherlock had nothing to be complaining about, really. Not when John was doing more than anyone would have ever expected of him to ensure that Sherlock never felt slighted.

As was Mary, Sherlock had to grudgingly admit. She respected all of the extra stipulations John had set up, and had never once complained (to his knowledge) when she called and John asked to meet the next day instead. She had never once made Sherlock feel like he was in the way - nor, moreover, had she ever made him feel like anything other than just another person.

He sighed. He knew that he should be goddamn grateful about the whole situation, which had turned out to be a far better one than he had ever dared to hope for. It had just been such an excruciatingly slow month...

But tomorrow...tomorrow there would be the thrill of the chase, with John alongside him, thrumming with the same sense of aliveness that Sherlock felt.  

John, who would shower Sherlock with the full beam of his admiration and attention, magnifying the already heady high of unravelling the mystery to such an extent that the pleasure would wrap itself comfortingly around Sherlock for days afterwards.

John, who would gaze at him with a mixture of amazement, wonder, and a gratefulness that Sherlock would never understand. It was a look that shone light into the darkest corners, that he could use to lead himself out of his blackest moods, that he wasn’t sure he could live without anymore now that he had seen it.

And even with his profound lack of skill with emotions, he knew that that light had been shining particularly brightly lately at least partially due to his acceptance of  Mary.

So it was worth it, Sherlock reminded himself. It was worth the lonely evenings and the inconveniences and the general frustration he was going through right now to see that light, the thought of which soothed him even now.

The things he did for John were a small price to pay, really, for what John gave him in return.

Feeling more collected, he strode purposefully back over to the table and picked up the phone.

 

_Not until morning.  -SH_

 

***

****

The front door opened and closed, followed by familiar footsteps on the stairs. John had opted to come home for the night after all. Unexpected, but not entirely a surprise either. Sherlock wasn’t the only one itching for a new case.

“So what is it this time?” John’s warm voice rang through the doorway.

“Missing person, probably not as complicated as it appears, but will require quite a bit of leg…” Sherlock cut himself off as John stepped into the flat. Something was off.  John’s face was slightly pinched with…worry? Uncertainty? Definitely not the usual blissful euphoria John always wore after his dates with Mary. “What’s wrong?”  

“Hm?” John raised his eyebrows innocently. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a bit tired,” he answered nonchalantly, walking away to the kitchen. “Fancy some tea? Should probably clear my head a bit first before we talk about the case.”

Sherlock stood and followed. “Something happened,” he pressed as John bustled with the kettle.

“Well, yes, of course many things happened,” John replied, reaching up to grab two mugs from the cupboard. “Though since when did you take such a close interest in my romantic life?” He turned around and shot Sherlock a wry grin. “Let’s see, first there was the concert, which was absolutely fantastic despite your disparaging preview. There was this one particular song that…”

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If John was going to insist on being intentionally obtuse…

“You’re obviously troubled about something,” he interrupted, moving closer and glaring down at the shorter man, “but it wasn’t the concert - which was absolutely fantastic, as you have just informed me.” He’d already noted the wine stain on John’s tie; now he could also sniff the greasy smell wafting off John’s jacket. “No, whatever you’re dwelling on happened at the restaurant afterwards, but it probably had nothing to do with the restaurant itself. Otherwise you would be irritated and also more than eager to tell me all about the matter. No instead you’re worried which implies that…”

“Sherlock...” John had stopped grinning.

“…it’s something that happened between you and Mary. What could it be? She didn’t break-up with you; you’re not distraught. Some sort of relationship trouble? You would have gone to Mary’s to sort it out if it were; you’re like that. So not about the relationship then. Must be something about Mary herself. Some kind of problem in her life? Perhaps one that might indirectly affect you? What could that possibly be though…” He trailed off, giving John another focused scan.

John’s breathing had become shallow, the corner of his eyes had creased, and his body had tensed. “Sherlock.It’s nothing, could you just lay off…”

“Oh!” Sherlock took a step back. “Oh.” Obvious, obvious, so obvious. He should have seen it from the start. If it had been about anything else, John would have told him already. “Was it about me?”

John’s breath caught. Only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

“What is it? Did I say something to offend her?” Sherlock frowned, worried himself now. Mary had never reacted negatively to his behavior, but perhaps she had just been hiding it from him, however unlikely the possibility. “Should I not have texted you tonight? It did interrupt your date, and it wasn’t technically necessary. But I thought you’d want to know right way, John, it’s been awhile since anything interesting has come our way and…”

“No.” John leaned forward and laid a firm hand on his arm. “No, Mary is not angry at you,” he said slowly, “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“What is it then?”

John bit his lip and stared at him instead of answering. After a moment, he gently turned Sherlock around and started leading him back into the living room.

“John... if it’s about me, surely I have a right to know…”

“I know.” His hand tightened on Sherlock’s arm ever so slightly. “I was going to tell you eventually, just…” he peered up, his face guarded, “just let me make some tea first,” he finished, sitting Sherlock back down in his armchair.

Giving Sherlock one more hesitant look, John headed back into the kitchen.

 

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and pondered as John finished preparing the tea. By the time he returned and handed Sherlock a steaming mug, he had figured it out. “She wants you to move-in with her,” he declared as John settled into his own armchair.

He froze. “Yes, that’s right.”

Of course it was. Sherlock couldn’t believe that it had taken him this long to realize it. He knew that John and Mary cared deeply for each other in a romantic manner; he also knew that two such people almost invariably ended up, at some point, cohabitating. For some reason that he could not discern at the moment, he had not, until now, put the two facts together to form their natural conclusion. Perhaps it was because he had long stopped putting John into the same category as “normal people” who did such conventional things, even though the man still shared quite a bit in common with them, as he was being painfully reminded now…

No matter now. Sherlock drew a sharp breath. Something had clenched tightly inside his chest, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He took a sip of his tea, hoping the hot liquid would relieve some of the tension, but instead it merely produced another knot where it settled in his stomach.

Meanwhile, John had leaned his elbows forward on his knees, watching Sherlock expectantly.  Sherlock searched his mind for something to say to distract him; he couldn’t have John noticing how he was reacting to all this at the moment.

The problem was that his mind, usually crammed full with racing, overlapping thoughts, had completely blanked.

“Are you?” he finally asked, in as neutral of a tone as he could manage. John was, of course, but he needed to buy himself some time…

“Am I what?”

Sherlock frowned. Was John being intentionally obtuse again? Then again, he did just himself ask a redundant question. “Moving in with her,” he clarified, clenching his mug a bit more tightly.

Now it was John’s turn to frown. “I…” he cleared his throat a bit, “I’m not sure.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Not sure? Why wouldn’t John be sure? He must have missed something. He swept his gaze searchingly across John’s face, his body, for whatever it was he wasn’t seeing.

The other man straightened to meet his sweeping gaze solidly, chin slightly tilted upward, mouth firmly set. This was John before every case. John, ready to do his duty. Oh, of course. Should have been completely obvious again. This was definitely not his area.

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock willed himself to say, forcing the words past the clenching feeling that had now worked its way into his throat.

John tilted his head. “What?”

Very carefully, Sherlock set his tea down on the side table.  “You’re not sure because you think I might object. That’s what was troubling you earlier. You were worried that it might upset me.” John’s mouth twitched slightly at that. “Well, it’s fine. I don’t mind,” he repeated, even as the tension in his chest pulled even tighter.

He pressed his fingertips together again and took a very slow breath, fighting back the urge to suddenly hyperventilate. Not now. Not here. Not in front of John. He mustn’t.  

The knot in his chest loosened, only to crawl up and seize the inside of his mouth.

John leaned forward on his elbows again, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock in turn tried to school his features into something nonchalant and casual, but he wasn’t sure how it actually turned out. The tension had crept up to his face now.

“That’s not the only reason, you know,” John said gently, after giving him a considered look.

“What else then?”

“Well…I am quite happy living here, with the way things are right now.”

 _Then why are you in a relationship which will inevitably lead to you leaving?_ “Well, you can hardly stay here forever,” he blurted out instead. A look of hurt flashed briefly across John’s face. “You’re committed to Mary and your relationship with her, yes?” he hastily added. John gave a stiff nod. “You’re hoping it will be something long-lasting and permanent, yes?” Another nod. “So that means you’re hoping to eventually build a life together with her. Why not start now that there’s an opportunity? You’re going to leave eventually anyway. May as well do it sooner rather than later. It’ll make it easier for everyone to adjust, don’t you think?” He bit out those last words. Not good.

Couldn’t help it. The tension had settled into his temples.

John just peered at him, face unreadable.

“I understand the situation, John. The reasons are perfectly sound. I don’t mind,” Sherlock amended, trying to blunt the sharpness of his last remark. His head throbbed.

“Yes, it’s perfectly sound,” John agreed, but he still looked…unconvinced.

Sherlock bit his lip, trying to think of what else to say. It wasn’t enough that Sherlock thought it logical for John to move in with Mary, wasn’t enough to persuade John that he wasn’t upset. No, Sherlock needed to find some way to emotionally assure him as well. Which was patently absurd considering the situation, but if Sherlock didn’t reassure John, then John was going to try to reassure Sherlock. He could see it already.

Sherlock just could not allow that to happen, so he wracked his now throbbing head. John Watson, believes in duty, obligation, loyalty. Loyalty to Sherlock. Would do anything to prove it. No, never had to prove it. Was always so natural, so obvious.

Except maybe now.

“I know you’ll still be just as committed to The Work,” he stated quietly, looking John straight in the eye, “and to our…friendship. I will never doubt that, and neither should you.” It was all true, and saying it aloud produced, despite all the tension, a thread of warmness within him.

John gave a start, his eyes widening in open surprise. He had not been expecting such emotional directness from Sherlock. Here was his opening.

Sherlock grasped at that faint trace of warmth, hoping to use it to say something kind yet true, even as his throat swelled from the sudden heat and threatened to close.  

“You’ll still be welcome at Baker Street of course, whenever you like, always,” he forced himself to say.  “In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw you as often as I do now. You’ll probably even still insist on making all the tea and doing all the washing; just as well for me, I might add,” he slipped in a genuine smile at the end of that one. The pounding in his head relented, just a bit.

“Well, we can’t have Mrs. Hudson doing all of it,” John replied sternly, but the corners of his mouth tugged upwards in return.

Something burst within Sherlock, but oh it was not warm release anymore it was icy shards slicing through the very structure of his consciousness toppling the neat and precise compartments of his mind there were wayward thoughts and sensations and emotions spewing everywhere…

With every last bit of his willpower, Sherlock managed to clamp it all down. He could not! Not now! Not when he was so close to convincing John that it was all fine. Just a bit more and then John would leave this alone, at which point Sherlock could find some way to send him away.

John had stopped smiling and was looking at him with something akin to worried concern once again. Sherlock reached desperately into his (devastated) mind for something to say.

He grabbed the first thing he found. “Well, at any rate, I should congratulate you, John,” he said smoothly, slipping into an easy smile. It was wrong, completely wrong, Sherlock knew it even as he said it, but it was too late. If John had looked concerned earlier, now he was definitely alarmed.

“Sherlock…” John started to rise out his chair.

Something true, something true! Sherlock frantically tore through the tatters of his thoughts. There had to be something true in there! Something to stop John!

“You…care deeply for Mary,” the words stumbled out. “And this means she reciprocates your feelings. I can tell she makes you happy, so this is…good,” he added, letting the smile fall away. It didn’t matter anymore; John was not going to be convinced now.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice, too kind, too soft, sneaking past the iron grip Sherlock currently had around the disintegrating pieces of his mind, threatening to set-off the whirling storm of destruction again… He needed John gone, now. He could still accomplish that, at the very least.

“John, I’m trying…to be…considerate. I’m trying.” He shot John a pleading look. _Please just accept it. Please leave it alone!_

John saw it, and stopped. He leaned back into his chair. “Yes. Yes, you are. Thank you.” His face remained far more troubled than when he stepped into the flat this evening, but he did not push the matter any further. “Should we go over the case then?” he asked instead.

“There’s not much to go on right now. Might be better to brief you about it tomorrow on the way over. We’re leaving early, around 7.”

John took the hint. “Right. Well, I best be off to bed then.” Sherlock nodded curtly in return.

At the doorway, John paused and gave Sherlock another look, as if he had something else to say. Whatever he saw must have changed his mind though, and he merely muttered a “good-night” instead before heading up the stairs.

Sherlock managed to wait until John’s bedroom door had closed before letting everything shatter.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, additional thanks to [shirleyholmes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes) for extra beta-reading, and for helping me figure out quite a bit of the back story.

He had not been prepared for it.

John was sitting there in the pleasant lull of the evening, listening to Mary’s hilariously cutting parodies of some of the ridiculous comments she had received on her latest article about spending cuts at the NHS. His head buzzed from the wine and from Andrea Bocelli. It had been a mesmerising concert, even if Sherlock had denigrated it as “pop-nonsense.”  

John had never really been a man for classical music, even though he found it pleasant on occasion. Between Sherlock and his Russian violinists and Mary and her pop-opera though, he was starting to get quite an immersion. He enjoyed it; might have even gotten more into it in his younger days, if he had received the same exposure.

He idly licked a leftover crumb from the dessert tart off his fork, savouring the buttery sweetness. He was, he reflected for a moment, truly happy. He couldn’t think of a single thing lacking in his life at the moment, even if it was a life that his younger self could never have imagined, what with his best friend an absolutely insane genius detective and his work being more or less the stuff of adventure mystery novels.

Then there was his girlfriend, not quite as outlandish as those other aspects of his life, yet still subtly quite different from anyone he would have ever expected for himself. John had always thought he wanted a woman who was either sweet or spunky, but Mary was neither. Instead, she was compassionate and resolute, with an air of seriousness about her that John in his younger days would have never cared for. But he found that he appreciated it now, how she was direct yet still tactful, how everything she said always had a point to it. It complemented his own straightforward nature rather well, actually.

There was also her beauty. John’s type had always been pleasantly pretty or conversely, strikingly gorgeous, but Mary was truly beautiful. Her features, if considered singularly, were unremarkable, yet there was an elegance to the way they combined which made an altogether astounding effect. She reminded John of a Greek statue, perfectly proportioned, at once simple and regal.

John watched appreciatively as she wrapped her willowy fingers around her wine glass, bringing it up to meet a pair of full, glossy lips. He peered into her clear green eyes, settling himself into their soothing calmness. Smiling, he dropped a hand down to his pocket. In it currently sat the text message which always sent shivers of anticipation through his spine: _Case. Could use your help. –SH_.

No, this was never the life he had imagined, but it was absolutely perfect. Perhaps the perfect was, by its very nature, unimaginable.

This was the thought swirling languidly in his mind when Mary said, “John, will you move in with me?”

****

***

****

The thing was, John himself had considered asking Mary the same question more than a year ago.

At some point, he had discovered that Mary was that woman he did not think existed: someone who could not just tolerate, but embrace the part that Sherlock Holmes played in John Watson’s life, even after death. She encouraged him to talk about Sherlock, far beyond what she needed to know of him; she even suggested that he write up their experiences into a book, “so people can know him the way that you did.” Then when he did write that book, she played no small part in helping him put it together, offering her years of expertise in the industry and utilizing all her connections to find him just the right editor and publisher.

Mary had her own professional interest in the subject of Sherlock Holmes of course, so perhaps that made it easier for her to accept the detective’s presence in their relationship. In general though, Mary did not demand the things that women in John’s past had from him, no overt signs of devotion or passion. She seemed appreciative of whatever John had to offer, and he tried to give her all that he could in return. There were no sweet nothings whispered into her ears, no flashy jewellry or other gifts of obvious commitment. He couldn’t manage either the lightness nor the depth of feeling those ostentatious displays required. Instead he always made dinner and tea for her when he visited, quietly massaged her shoulders after a long day, sat up with her to sort through files when she was nearing the deadline of an article.

She in turn offered her own quiet support, always bringing take-out to John’s even when she was too busy to stay for dinner, taking care of the dishes when he cooked, letting him just lie in her arms when he fell into one of his lapses of silence. And she never responded with anything other than patience and understanding when it came to Sherlock Holmes. Never implied, not even once, that perhaps his connection to Sherlock was unhealthy, that perhaps he needed to move on.

Over time, it had occurred to John that he had been fortunate enough to find someone who could appreciate him exactly as he was. It was then that he realized that he could fall in love with Mary Morstan.

They had been together for eight months when John decided that, on their one-year anniversary, he would ask Mary to move in with him.

Two months later, Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead.   

****

At first, John had worried about how his friend’s return would affect his relationship. After all, it was one thing to accept Sherlock as a pile of case notes, as the topic for John’s next book (and therefore half of dinner conversation), as a tragic dream that John too often woke from, even as a permanent fixture in his emotional memory. It was another to accept him as a living, breathing force, boring down on you with those intense grey eyes, pointing out all of the factual discrepancies in your latest article (not to mention deducing all the gossip at your office), swooping in and interrupting your date with your boyfriend that you haven’t seen in a week. But Mary had taken it all in stride, thanking Sherlock for his fact-checking, responding with no more than polite interest at the unveiled secrets of her co-workers, and sending John off always with an encouraging smile and proud if worried eyes.

And…the miracle of all miracles was that Sherlock had responded in kind. He tempered his intensity for her, treated her with his version of consideration. Gave her leads to her stories, offered contacts, even patiently explained to her a few of his cases, or one of his current ongoing experiments, his version of polite small talk. He even occasionally asked her, however briefly, about social issues and politics. Politics!

The month that John had walked in on them deep in conversation about the legal recourses available to the wrongly convicted, he had been on a constant high. If he wasn’t out with his extraordinary best friend, chasing criminals, living out fantastical adventures, then he was with his amazing girlfriend, always tirelessly championing the disadvantaged and wronged, possessing wells of empathy that he had not thought possible. He felt blessed to know them both; it felt almost unbearable sometimes to love them as well. Almost.

At the edge of unbearable was when everything felt most alive.

That month, John found the passion he had thought himself incapable of giving. He romanced Mary constantly, properly, the way he should have from the very beginning. Unprompted compliments, little gifts out of the blue, that sort of thing, affectionate touches at every opportunity. She was surprised but pleased, and returned his attentions in earnest. Her natural seriousness lightened into mirth around him. They saw each other less than before Sherlock’s return, true, but John felt themselves growing closer with every meeting.

It wasn’t as heady now as it was during that month (he didn’t bring her flowers before every date now), but it was still ongoing. He still went out of his way to please her, still felt his breath catch and his knees waver for just a second when he saw her. He was quite certain, as much as anyone could be about these things, that he had indeed fallen in love with her.

All while still being Sherlock’s flatmate at 221B.

****

***

****

Mary was watching him with her hands clasped under her chin, face expressionless. John shifted slightly in his seat. He knew he needed to say something to her, but he had no idea how to proceed.

By all rights, John ought to be beyond pleased at this, and yet the only word he could come up with for what he was feeling at the moment was…unease.

“Mary,” he started very gently, leaning forward and clasping his own hands together on the table. “I’m beyond flattered that you would ask me this. But,” he paused, “it’s quite a big step, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I think it’s one we’re ready for, don’t you?” She unclasped her hands and reached them across to lay over his. “John, the way I feel about you…I’ve never felt this way about anyone else before. I can see us being together for, well, quite a long time into the future. I want us to be, anyway.” She beamed warmly at him.

John swallowed. How the hell was one supposed to answer that except, “I love you and of course I want nothing more than to live with you”? He should be feeling ecstatic about this, not…a bit like his insides were slowly twisting into each other.

But John had never been one to ignore his gut, not when it had saved his life and those of countless others too many times.

Opening his hands up to clasp hers, he said, a bit hoarsely, “Mary, you are, hands down, the most wonderful and beautiful woman I have ever met, and I couldn’t see myself with anyone else but you.” He took a sharp breath, “I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else.”  She squeezed his hands at that, her eyes shining, and John almost held back on the next part, but he pushed on. “It’s just that…”

Her face fell back into a placid mask. “What’s wrong?”

That was the problem. Nothing, as far as John could tell, was wrong. In fact, everything was going as goddamn right as it could.

Nothing except for the very feeling of wrongness itself.

“There’s just a lot to consider,” he finally finished a bit weakly.

To his surprise, she smiled at him again. “I know there is. But you will consider it, at least?”

“Of course, of course I will,” he replied hurriedly. She suddenly seemed too far away. “I’m sure once I think about it on a clear head, I’ll see that there’s nothing to worry about at all,” he reassured her, giving her hands a squeeze. “You make me nothing but happy Mary. I just...don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”

“You’re a thoughtful man John, I respect that about you,” she responded, squeezing his hands in return. “And you’re right, this really isn’t the best setting to talking about such serious matters. I guess I was just a bit caught up in the evening.” Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly.

That was enough. With one swift movement, John rose out of his seat and leaned across the table to kiss her.

He would almost instantly dismiss it as a trick of the light, but as they pulled apart, John thought he saw, beneath all the obvious pleasure and affection, just the faintest glimmer of sadness.

****

They spoke of normal things after that. John gave Mary a review of the novel he had just finished; she gave him an overview of a play she wanted to see. Soon enough, the check came and they headed out the door.

They had been walking hand-in-hand in silence, clearing their heads with the cool night air when Mary asked, “Are you worried about him?”

“What?” There was absolutely no question as to whom she was referring to, but John wasn’t sure if this was a conversation he wanted to have at the moment. “I’m always worried about him. That’s nothing new.”

John had started to hope that she would just let it drop at that when she added, “You know I would never try to come between the two of you, no matter how serious we become.”

He stopped abruptly. The very idea of it…!  Very gently but firmly, he turned Mary toward him until he was looking her directly in the eyes. “Mary, I would never ever even think that about you.” He frowned as a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Is that why you think I’m unsure about…?”

“No.” She pressed a hand on his shoulder. “I know you know how I feel about you two. I just,” she hesitated, “I just felt that it was important to say.” For the first time all evening, she seemed a bit discomfited.

John took her in carefully, trying to understand this sudden turn in the conversation. Once again though, there was little more he could read off of her. “Thank you,” he finally replied hesitantly, “but you don’t need to say it, not to me. I couldn’t imagine anyone being as understanding and supportive as you’ve been.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She gave him a quiet smile and his arms a squeeze, but he could still see something unsettled in her eyes. Not knowing what else to do, he drew her in for a brief embrace before starting them down the street once more, his arm securely wrapped around her waist this time.

For a while, there was no sound except for those of their shoes tapping over the pavement. Then John heard Mary ask softly, “What about him? Does he know how I feel about it?”

John was taken aback by her question. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he had ever considered it at all, even to himself. The fact that Sherlock and Mary had gotten along well was barely comprehensible to him as it was; he had not thought to wonder beyond that at all.

He glanced over at her. Mary was staring ahead resolutely, and he could feel stiffness starting to gather in her body. John knew that she deeply admired and respected Sherlock, but he hadn’t realized just how much Sherlock’s opinion mattered to her until now.

“You know, he’s been…quite accepting of our relationship, in his own way,” John finally said, trying to choose just the right words. “I know he’s still cold and aloof a lot of the time, but he’s made more effort with you than I’ve seen him make with…well almost anyone else. He would never do that if he thought for a second that you didn’t accept our friendship.”

“Don’t get me wrong John, he’s been nothing but incredibly lovely towards me,” Mary replied.  “I mean, he got our tickets tonight, just because you told him I wanted to go.” She shook her head. “Part of me still can’t believe it.”

“I can’t either, to be honest.” He smiled, feeling a surge of fondness as he recalled Sherlock oh-so-casually mentioning that there were two tickets to the sold-out Bocelli concert on the kitchen table. “Did a bit of work for the Royal Opera once,” he had explained offhandedly when John had stood there gaping and stammering his thanks.

He pressed her in a bit tighter against him. “He definitely likes you, Mary. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Even as he said that though, another memory started floating across his mind from just earlier that day, when John had headed into the living room, freshly dressed for his date.

Sherlock was pacing around the living room in agitated circles, and whirled toward John as soon as he had walked in, ready to launch off into who-knows-what. Then his eyes had lit upon John’s suit and tie, his combed hair and polished shoes, the dress watch on his wrist, and for a moment, John saw his face fall and his body sag, as if John had just pulled out the plug of whatever had been driving his manic energy. And John thought--no he knew--that he saw the wisps of something like abandonment flitting across Sherlock’s eyes.

It was gone almost immediately, and then Sherlock was breezily wishing John a good evening, before striding to the table and burying himself in a pile of chemistry papers, where he had remained immobile and unresponsive.

At the time, John had brushed it off as just a manifestation of Sherlock’s moods. After all, the man had set up the date in the first place, for god sakes! And yet…

“And yet you’re still worried,” he heard Mary comment next to him.

He sighed. “I guess the truth is even I still don’t know for sure what goes on in his head most of the time,” he admitted.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

He ground to a halt, vaguely wondering how many more times he was going to be astonished by their conversation tonight. Frowning, he turned towards her. “Sherlock and I don’t have conversations like that.”

“Maybe you should.”

He just stared at her, completely confounded now.

“John,” There was something almost a bit…urgent in her voice. “I know that moving in together is a big decision that you should think carefully about, but…” she glanced away for a moment before turning back to meet his gaze head on, “other than Sherlock, is there really anything else that’s making you hesitate?”

He needed to say something. He needed to reassure her, to tell her that no of course there were many other things to think about, that this was about them, that Sherlock had nothing to do with it at all…except that she was completely and absolutely correct. So John just stood there, not knowing what to say, or what to do, or what exactly was going on anymore.

She placed a hand on his arm, and to his surprise he found that she had relaxed. Her face too, had resumed its usual composed yet kind demeanour. “John, I already knew that he’s going to be a major factor in your decision. And when I said I would never do anything to come between your two, I meant it. So talk to him. You can’t make the right decision if you don’t know how he feels.”

John was sure that there was something else that she was saying from the beseeching look in her eyes and the way her voice trembled at the end, but he was far too stunned by this point to pursue it. So he stuck to what he knew, which was that everything she said was right. Which left him with only one thing to say.

“I’ll talk to him. I promise.”

****

***

****

The glowing red digital lights read 1:00 AM. John sighed, rolling back to face the dark ceiling. With the last vestiges of the wine gone, sleep was currently the last thing on his mind.

He wasn’t sure how exactly what was supposed to have been a lovely evening out had turned into this huge quandary. That was the problem with being involved with extraordinary people, he thought with a bit of resignation; inevitably they ended up doing things inexplicable to ordinary people like him.

Though, if John was being honest, the person who had been perplexing him the most all evening was neither Sherlock nor Mary, but himself.

That Mary would, in the midst of a romantic evening, ask him to move in with her was natural. That John would conversely feel uneasy about it was not. He had long ago decided that, if forced to choose between a girlfriend and Sherlock, he would always choose Sherlock, but Mary had never and would never make him choose. Then there were the things that she had said when he had walked her back to her apartment. That she said them was not surprising, as they had turned out to be important and true, and Mary did not shy from those things.

But what had ended up being important and true…John still could not wrap his head around it. There was some pattern there, some larger overall point that he could not discern for the life of him no matter how many times he had gone over it.

Yes, of course he was concerned about Sherlock’s feelings, but Sherlock also still frequently forgot that people had lives of their own and that John’s time did not belong exclusively to him. John had never paid much attention to Sherlock’s obvious desire to keep John more to himself; both of them knew that he was there for Sherlock when his friend really needed him. So why did it bother him now? Or was it actually something else that John was concerned about?

But Mary had been right. Something this important, it was better to talk to Sherlock about it, if only to make sure everyone was on the same page. Not that John really had a choice in the matter, in the end. Though it had been a relief, actually, when Sherlock had deduced what had happened. It saved John from having to think of a way to broach the subject himself.

And in his relief, John had inadvertently said something that he realised was perhaps the most honest thing he had said on the subject all evening. At the end of the day, he did not know if he wanted to leave 221B.

He thought of the garish wallpaper, the over-stuffed armchairs, of the rows of eclectic books lining the dark wooden shelves, of the skulls and dead insects mounted on the walls. Of boxes of newspaper clippings strewn about the floor, beakers of chemicals covering every inch of the kitchen counter and tables, of the (now separate) fridge of body parts. It was amazing how a flat that was so filled with things not belonging to John would feel the most like home out of all the places he had ever lived. Not surprisingly his room, which contained only John’s things, was perhaps his least favourite place in the entire flat, used really only for sleep.

The flat was just like his friendship with Sherlock, John reflected for not the first time. Sherlock already had everything set up and in place, and somehow in had come John, fitting in with all of it. It used to make him wonder from time to time if to Sherlock, John was just another possession--just more handy than his already high-tech tea kettle, more animated than the skull, slightly more interesting than the mould in the petri dishes. Or maybe, he sometimes dared to venture, like Sherlock’s more obviously prized items, on par with the Belstaff coat or the violin.

He only entertained these thoughts now because they were so preposterous that he couldn’t help but be amused by them. Yet John couldn’t help but feel like a part of the flat, couldn’t think of him and Sherlock without 221B also attached to it. And for him to leave it…

It felt more than just a mere changing of addresses, or even just spending more nights with Mary, that was for sure. It almost felt like a betrayal of their friendship itself.

John sighed. It was ridiculous. It didn’t make any sense. John would probably still be at 221B just as often, as Sherlock had pointed out.    

Speaking of Sherlock though…John frowned as he thought over their conversation again. He hadn’t been sure how Sherlock would take the news, but out of all the possible reactions he had imagined, Sherlock’s actual one had not been among them. Mostly, whether or not Sherlock approved, John had expected indifference. Put-on nonchalance if Sherlock had approved; put-on boredom if he had not. John had even expected an outright objection…but an outright endorsement, he never saw that coming.

John didn’t like it at all.

It had almost sounded reasonable, in the sense that it was what any “normal” person would have said. But Sherlock was not anywhere near “normal”; “normal” in him was an aberration. “Normal” was what Sherlock employed when he wanted to deceive you. “Normal” was Sherlock lying, was Sherlock drugging John’s coffee, was Sherlock running alone to face Moriarty…

Sherlock was hiding something, and it wasn’t just his usual sulkiness about the fact that he couldn’t command all of John’s time. It made him wonder if he hadn’t misjudged Sherlock’s real opinions about his relationship with Mary all along. She had been right to be worried.

Perhaps John had known, deep down inside, that it would bother Sherlock on more than just a superficial level. Perhaps that was why he had felt so uneasy. John was a man of instinct before thought, at the end of the day, especially when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

He sighed. He had no idea how, but he had to find out what exactly Sherlock was hiding.

As if to confirm what he had been thinking, he heard the front door slam. Propping himself up on his elbow, he looked through the window just in time to see a figure cloaked in a familiar dark coat on his way out.  

 


	3. A Note to My Readers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news and good news...

Dear Readers,

Thank you so much for supporting this work, and for the lovely comments several of you have left after reading just two chapters.

Unfortunately, this is the end of  _this version_ of this story. This is my first attempt at writing fiction in almost eight years, and like any beginner, I've made many, many mistakes even in the process of writing these two short chapters but also learned tremendously from them. However, I'm afraid that I committed perhaps the very common yet serious error of not plotting enough in advance before writing, and have written myself into a spot where I realized that this current version of the story is not what I want. While normally I would probably just try and go with what I have, the theme of this story is something very personally important to me and therefore it's crucial that it expresses certain things which I am unable to do so with where I currently see this going.

 **The good news is that I am currently thoroughly plotting my second attempt.** I am not sure when it will be posted; I am hoping to do so before Season 3 airs, but if I can't I will post it anyway as a partial AU. But it will be posted eventually, and this time I will not post until it's already been completed (or close enough so that completion is certain).

I apologize for leaving you all in the lurch, but I promise that it will be temporary, and that at least what I see as the most important aspect of this work, which is Sherlock and John's relationship to each other, will remain more or less the same.

Thank you again for reading this work, and I hope you'll be around for when I return.

~Aesthetic Emotions 


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